What shall we call them? Oversights? Bungles? A preponderance of laxities? You know what I’m talking about: situations where the easy fix is just so very obvious, and yet they persist. In the face of all reason, they persist.
You’d think some level of government would sort these things out. You’d think that the G7 would have focussed their considerable firepower on these issues. Alas, no. This is exactly how entropy takes hold. What is needed – and I’m sure you’ll agree – is some supreme authority to set things right.
What is needed is some supreme authority to set things right.
So, what about me?
This is, as they say, a big job, but someone has to do it. I volunteer! Pick me! Pick me!
I’m prepared to be pilloried on social media. Parodied on Saturday Night Live. Mocked on TikTok. This is a job that needs doing and, in many ways, I’ve been preparing myself for it for decades.
I’ve been secretly campaigning for the job of Ruler of the World for some years now.
To that end, I’ve been serving up campaign promises to an array of friends, family and acquaintances. Let’s say, a friend complains about people who, through inattention or sheer stupidity, take up three spots of curb-side parking. Another friend curses out shoelaces that don’t stay tied. To each of these people I issue majestic assurance, “When I’m Ruler of the World, I’ll fix that.” It’s a rare and beautiful moment in civil discourse.
“When I’m Ruler of the World, I’ll fix that.”
I’ve compiled a list of the most pressing issues that I’ll attend upon assuming the throne. These may not seem like big things to you, but, remember: many’s the kingdom that’s been lost for want of a nail.
Lids. Let’s start with lids. One of my first executive decisions will be to standardize lids for jars. There will be only a dozen sizes of lids. Globally, just twelve lids to choose from. They’ll all be clearly numbered. The jars can be of any shape or size, but the orifices will be standardized. The time spent devoted to trying an array of lids on a jar will be eliminated. Those hours can now be devoted to cancer research. Ta-da!
All libraries will have a receptacle for orphaned Zip-Loc and Rubbermaid container lids. In my personal, highly scientific polls of Canadian households, I’ve discovered that there are more lid-less containers than there are citizens. That’s a lot of underperforming, costly plastics. Canadians live in hope that errant lids will, somehow, be reunited with their bottoms. Years pass. We need to abandon that hope and make our partner-less lids available to others. To that end, all libraries will have a Rubbermaid tote in their foyers. The community is invited to drop off their excess lids as well as to sort through the collection for lids that’ll complete their sets. If we can manage this, what other sorts of social engineering might be possible?
Getting back to shoelaces: just how is it that shoelaces became an enemy of the people? Why hasn’t there been a class action suit against shoelace manufacturers? Today’s shoelace defies the physics of knot-tying. Double-knotting doesn’t seem to help. Fusing with an acetylene torch doesn’t seem to help. Even a short Sunday stroll can result in several exasperated re-knottings. In my capacity as Ruler of the World, I’ll make a quick call to the shoelace consortium. Perhaps all that’s required is a suggestion, an incentive, possibly a veiled threat, but I think I can sort this out inside of a business quarter, or two.
… a suggestion, an incentive, possibly a veiled threat …
Now, let’s revisit the curbside parking problem. Here’s the fix: I’ll arrange for yellow lines to be drawn at the front and back of the available parking, and possibly drawn to indicate each potential spot. Drivers will be instructed, upon pain of death, to ensure that their vehicle lines up with these lines. Yes, you heard right: pain of death. In my capacity as Ruler of the World,
I don’t foresee myself as being a benevolent dictator. There’s just too much at stake.
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Submissions to last week’s question:
CHAMPAGNE? LOVE IT OR TOSS IT?
As a man-about-town in the UK in the 1970’s, my dates often desired Babychamp, “The champagne of Perrys” as the adverts said. That advertising slogan was challenged in 1978 , when the Champagne region took them to court but lost! In the 80’s, my fiancé and I holidayed in a seaside town where we passed a pub with two big barrels of scrumpy in the garden. I ordered a pint for myself and a half for my fiancé. “Sorry sir, we don’t serve scrumpy to women”, was the response. Quite right! Two pints later I was away with the fairies and very ill on the beach.
Traditional scrumpy looks like apple soup, with bits in it that you sieve through your teeth. Rocket fuel, it is, fermented maximally to around 13%. Scrumpy often contains aldehydes and other alcohols apart from ethanol. The effect on the brain of chronic consumption is similar to Absinthe. There was a chain of scrumpy houses in South Wales called The Apple House . The patrons often mumbling, shaking and responding to stimuli, only they could see and hear. I presume Bowen Island scrumpy is a far more refined product.
Cheers … but not in champagne!
Ralph Jones
I happen to like champagne and would have gladly taken yours off your hands and saved a few plants. I’ve probably had genuine champagne only a handful of times in my life, but enjoy a good quality knock-off a few times a year, and not just for special occasions. As to scrumpy which you mention, it made me recall a trip to a cider bar called the Coronation Tap Pub in Bristol, England about 45 years ago where at that time scrumpy was its star attraction. I loved that, too, and was disappointed that women were limited to ordering only half pints, and further limited to a total of only two of those, as the very high alcohol content packed a considerable wallop. I doubt that rule is still in place today, though. In retrospect, it was probably a good idea, as I also recall that I don’t recall much of the walk back to where I was staying.
Susanne de Pencier
Scrumpy, a word I haven’t heard for many years. We drank it at student parties in 1950’s Britain.
I still enjoy a glass of dry apple cider, but have always found Champagne disappointing even though It looks so pretty.
Margaret Knott
Not being a fan of champagne nor prosecco, we served our beverage of choice for the wedding toast when we married. Ginger beer! Everyone loved it and, if they didn’t, we weren’t pouring hundreds of dollars down the drain afterwards.
Jackie Simpson
We loved the Cidery. We purchased Undercurrant and Snug Cove Strubarb. Thanks again for the heads up.
John Pringle
I first tasted Perry on my first trip to the south of England to visit the birthplace of my new(ish) husband. He was thrilled to be drinking real cider again (not scrumpy – too robust even for him). I did not care for cider. A kind bartender at The Rising Sun introduced me to Perry, which I thought had to be the real original nectar. What an amazing drink! Delicate, fragrant, delicious and surreptitiously intoxicating! I haven’t had it since but I still remember the taste 50 years later!
Irene Slater
Ah – the bubbly! I have always loved it. In fact, when I was in my twenties and thirties, back (cough, cough) years ago, I made it a rule to always have a bottle of some kind of cheap version of it in my fridge. The thinking was that there was always something worth celebrating.
I remember many a balmy Saturday afternoon taking out the bottle and cracking it open on our balcony, sharing it around with friends. It could be the decision for my boyfriend and I to move in together. It could be to celebrate starting our own little publishing venture or even getting the details for our first book signing tour. Or maybe just that we felt life was good. Life was always filled with a good excuse to open up a bottle of the bubbly.
Deni Loubert